


Marvel Schmoop

by punygod



Category: Marvel
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:30:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punygod/pseuds/punygod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collecting a bunch of shippy, schmoopy drabbles that I've written over the years in one place</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enamour Me

“Buck! Bucky, wake up.”

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but Steve’s wide awake, storming into Bucky’s apartment like a fire was sweeping the neighbourhood. The inside of the apartment is still dark, and he doesn’t even bother with the lights, just fumbles his way to Bucky’s bedroom. With the ruckus he’s making, Bucky’s already stirring, groaning into his pillow.

“Bucky, come on, I want to show you something,” Steve says, with all the cheer that no sane man should possess at five in the morning. He tugs at Bucky’s blankets, but there’s a very grumpy Bucky adamant on getting his eight hours who clutches them tight around him. Giving up for the moment, Steve heads to Bucky’s wardrobe and starts picking out clothes; pants, two pairs (it was cold out), a shirt, a sweater and one of the big weather proof jackets that Steve himself was wearing. He dumps the whole lot at the foot of Bucky’s bed and tries again to get his friend to wake up. “Bucky, it’ll be worth it. Please? I’ve got the coffee going.” The face Bucky gives him is less than pleased, but there’s a certain light in Steve’s eyes and the way he’s looking back at Bucky that makes Bucky sigh and grumble some more, but he does sit up and reach for the clothes Steve set out.

Steve beams and leans off, leaving the room for Bucky to get dressed, and to finish making up the coffee. When Bucky stumbles out of the bedroom, looking like death bundled up in too many layers by an overprotective mother, Steve has the coffee in a thermos and is rearing to go.

Outside is still dark, with only a hint of gold in the distance, the sun just about to rise. It’s also cold, but that was what the hot coffee and the layers of jackets were for. Bucky trundles along while Steve drags him by the arm. The walk takes about half an hour, and by that time Bucky has woken up enough to start giving Steve shit for whatever this crazy expedition is about. “Five in the morning. FIVE. What the—" 

Steve waves a hand to shut him up. "Shh, we’re here.” Their breaths comes out in puffs of fog, breathing a little harder than normal from the walk up the hill that Bucky hadn’t even realised they’d been climbing, distracted as he was with his complaining. Having made it to the top of the hill, Steve sits down, pulling at Bucky’s arm to get him to do the same. Then he nods his head, pointing out the view. 

The sun is just beginning to rise, casting it’s orange glow above the city they’ve learned to call home. It seeps into the darkness of the night before, bringing with it, a new day, and warmth. Steve watches, as the shine hits Bucky’s face, his complaints forgotten, enthralled in the view, and smiles. He carefully pours out a cup of coffee, and sets it in Bucky’s hands, to warm up at least the right one. “Nice, huh?” he murmurs, leaning his head on Bucky’s shoulder, arm slipping through one of Bucky’s to be closer.

“…Yeah. It’s nice.”


	2. You're a Horrible Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha knows all.

“Steve, we’re married, you can move your hand lower,” Natasha mutters out of the corner of her mouth. Steve’s hand was just at the curve of her waist, sufficiently decent and sufficiently difficult for Steve, considering the dress Natasha was wearing. But they really did look like a couple on their first awkward prom date, not a husband and wife of three years like they were supposed to be.

Huffing out a sigh, Steve obligingly moves his hand lower to her hip, and then because he might as well, lower still to the curve of her ass where he gives a gentle squeeze. “That low enough for you, hunny?” he says quietly, smirking. 

Natasha slaps him on the chest, not bothering to hold back her strength, but for anyone watching, they were just a happy couple involved in a bit of playful banter. They were interrupted by another party guest, who proceeded to ask them a tonne of questions, to which Steve and Natasha recited practiced answers. 

Steve had to do some quick thinking when he was asked when it was that he realised he loved Natasha. He’d stuttered for a moment, but then the answer had rolled off his lips, easy as breathing, captivating everyone who was listening to their conversation. 

Later that night, back at their pretend home, Natasha was waiting for him when he came out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. “Oh – ah, hot water should still be running,” he said awkwardly, giving her a small smile before continuing his way out of the room. He slept on the couch; Natasha slept on the bed. 

“You’re a horrible liar, you know that?” Natasha spoke up.

Steve stopped in his tracks, and turned around. “What? No, I swear, I was only in there five minutes, the hot water–”

“I’m not talking about the hot water. I’m talking about what you said earlier at the party.” When Steve remained silent, she went on. “I know when you’re lying, Rogers, and that wasn’t a lie.” She got up and walked over to him, hands sliding around his waist, his body still warm and flushed from the shower. “You didn’t just make that up off the top of your head, did you?”

Steve looked to the side, nervous. “I can explain….”

“You explained enough.” He’d explained how his love for her had been unexpected, and a slow one. One that grew deeper with each passing day. One that made him question himself, and also want to become a better man who was deserving of her. How she was first his friend, then his lover and how she knew him better than anyone else. How he was completely himself around her. 

She leaned up a kissed him, hands on the sides of his face to pull him down. 

They’d kissed before, but this time, no one was looking.


	3. Blanket Forts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is the best boyfriend.

“Buck… Bucky, c’mon, you’re gonna crick your neck.” He nudged Bucky gently in the shoulder, and got an answering grumble, but not much else. Steve didn’t like rousing Bucky from sleep to begin with, because he knew how little the man got on a day to day basis. But he couldn’t let Bucky sleep cramped up like this on the couch. 

He thought for a moment, and then disappeared down the hall. He returned a few minutes later, his arms full of blankets and sheets from the bed and spare ones from the closet. 

It was a testament to how often he’d done this before – years and years ago, but still – that he managed to set up what could only be described as a blanket fort in less than ten minutes. The sheets were draped between the armchairs, creating a sort of canopy, and the floor was scattered with pillows and cushions with blankets laid over them. 

“Buckyyyy,” he called softly, on all fours just by the couch. “C’mon, you only gotta move like two inches.”

Another grumble and Bucky lifted his head up from the couch. He had a fabric crease imprinted on his cheek. Steve leaned forward and kissed it. Then Bucky’s eyes fell on the whole set up Steve had put together, and huffed out a laugh. “Steve, you idiot.” His voice low, croaky from sleep.

Steve just grinned. “Come on.” He slipped a hand into Bucky’s and gave it a tug. Bucky obligingly slid off the couch, straight onto the waiting cushions and blankets and half on top of Steve. Together, they shuffled until they were comfy, buried in cushions and pillows and the blankets draped over them. Despite the number of real pillows, Bucky used Steve’s chest for one instead, curling around him. “Idiot,” he mumbled.

Steve dropped a kiss into the soft curls of Bucky’s dark hair. “Go to sleep, baby.”


	4. Four Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then and now.

They’ve slept in the same bed so often and for so long that it’s nothing to raise an eyebrow about. Sarah definitely doesn’t, when Bucky Barnes comes over and spends the night, sometimes several, before returning home again. Sarah was, in fact, grateful that Steve had Bucky, as troublesome as the kid was. He was perfect for Steve in that way. 

When Steve’s health allowed him, they always played outside, a game of marbles or two square, sometimes scuffling together in the dirt until Sarah had to come around and pluck the two off each other. 

And when Steve couldn’t go outside, too weak to do so, they’d stay inside and read and draw and make up stories between each other. Sarah often smiled to herself when she overheard what they came up with – adventures in jungles, on the moon, into the future.

Bucky’s story telling was always more dramatic, a reminder that it was all make-believe. Steve had a way of schooling his imagination into something that seemed almost plausible. They balanced each other out like that, and would spend hours upon hours sitting on the wooden floorboards beneath the window talking and talking, Steve sometimes doodling out the stories in his notebook as Bucky spoke, until Sarah had to drag them up and dump them both in the bath to get ready for bed.

As they grew older, they lost the time to spend so long lost with each other in each other’s imagination. There was school, and then there was homework, and Steve’s sicknesses hit harder. Bucky sat by his bed with his notebook full of math equations out so Sarah wouldn’t get on his case, but really, he wrote. He wrote their story so he wouldn’t forget and could tell Steve all about it in all the detail when he was awake enough to listen.

And then times grew harder still and Bucky was no longer in school. He had a brother and two sisters at home, a mother who did her best and a father who did nothing at all but bring the whole lot of them down. Bucky worked, picking up what he could, scraping up pennies that would help get his family by.

Sarah upped her shifts, working to the bone and became frail because of it, the grey in her hair darkening, the lines in her face deepening. Still, Bucky came around when he could, lifting the mood when everyone was slunk in Depression.

They grew older still and then Sarah didn’t at all. It was just Steve in that too old, too small apartment now, which had holes where holes shouldn’t be and creaked with the gusts of wind. Somehow, without his mother, the place seemed all too big.

Bucky never stopped coming around, sometimes he came with food. Sometimes with beer and a pack of cigarettes they smoked together out on the fire escape and watched the hustle and bustle of Brooklyn below until Steve couldn’t ignore the tightness of the lungs and had to put the cigarette out to save it for a later time.

Bucky would follow him inside and go for the beers instead, kept in the icebox that didn’t really do its job very well. Their talk would become a little louder, their laughter more liberal until Steve passed out with his face mashed against Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky stayed just like that for a little while, listening to Stevie’s quiet breaths, watching the slow rise and fall of his narrow chest. He took sips from his beer until the bottle was empty, and then he picked Steve up, jostling him as little as he could and tucked him away in bed.

Steve reached out and asked Bucky to stay, and Bucky did. Of course he did. And on one of those nights, neither of them could remember which, when they talked about it later on, Steve didn’t just pull Bucky into bed, he pulled Bucky down and crashed their lips together and Bucky kissed right back.

As kids they tossed and turned a lot and sometimes Bucky would wake with his head at the end of the bed with Steve’s foot pressed against his chin. As lovers they woke in each other’s arms, Steve’s back to Bucky’s sturdy chest, held in strong arms that gave him more warmth than the blankets did and more protection than his four walls did.

Years later, after war and ice and bloodshed, they woke like that again. Steve was too big to slip easily into the matching puzzle piece of Bucky’s body, but they were both different now, different puzzle pieces and yet they still fit together so perfectly. Steve made himself small, curled up with his arms tucked into himself, and Bucky as ever, brought the warmth and the protection four walls never could.

And when they woke, they’d lie just like that and whisper, interspaced with quiet laughs, make believe stories from a life time ago.


	5. Five Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Steve and Tony got in each other's face.

i. 

Debriefing’s just finished and the whole lot of them have been thoroughly chastised by a completely fed up Fury. The air’s thrumming with unsaid words and as the rest of the team file out, Steve and Tony are left alone in the room. Steve cracks first.

“What were you thinking?” He pulls Tony back by the elbow, but the other man is quick to brush him off, and while he’s a good deal shorter than Steve, the intensity of his glare more than makes up for the lacking inches. 

“I was thinking – hey, here’s a good way to save all our asses, I’m gonna do it before it’s too late. You know, a thank you goes a long way, Rogers. Didn’t you mother teach you manner—“

The mere mention of his mother gets Steve’s hackles up. “I made a call for the whole team and I expected you to listen. You can’t just decide for yourself—”

“Really? You’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do? Seems a bit rich, coming from the guy who stuffed all the orders he was given up the ass of the person who gave them to him?”

Tony uses the suddenly surprised look on Steve’s face to keep going and get his point across. “Yeah, I’ve read good ole Captain America’s file. You’re no boy scout, so don’t fucking expect it from me.” Dark eyes lock onto blue ones, and the fight leaves the latter’s.

“Just tell me, next time,” Steve says eventually. “I’m responsible for this team.” He steps away from Tony’s space, only then realising how close they’d gotten, and leaves the room.

ii.

Steve feels something tickling his cheek. He thinks he’s dreaming it, and although he’s awake now, he keeps his eyes closed thinking he’ll just fall back to sleep. But the tickling continues and he suddenly feels warm breath on his face. 

His eyes shoot open, and he’s met with big, dark ones staring back, wide with surprise. They’re the only thing he can see, Tony’s that close, and Steve quickly scrambles back. Shoot, he wasn’t in his bed like he’d thought, he was on the couch, and Tony was right in front of him and the others were surrounding them, looking on with various levels of amusement on their faces.

“Tony, what are you doing?” Steve says slowly.

The surprise of being caught fades from Tony’s face, and he schools it into something indifferent. “Nothing,” he says casually leaning back, and Steve sees him pocket a black sharpie before he all but runs out of the lounge. 

Natasha hold up her phone for Steve and in the screen’s reflection Steve sees what Tony’s drawn on his face. 

“TONY!”

iii. 

Steve and Tony are standing off to the corner, talking. It’s not exactly clear what they’re talking about, but Clint can tell by their expressions and stance that it’s far too polite to be what they should be talking about. Which was boning, in Clint’s opinion, and in the opinion of all the other Avengers, though he was the only one brave enough to admit it. 

He waltzes over, as casual as he can be, (which isn’t all that casual), and Tony’s in the middle of laughing at something Steve’s said, when Clint places a hand on the back of each of their heads, and pushes them forward. There’s a yelp and splutter of surprise as Steve and Tony’s faces are mashed together, Steve’s nose poking painfully into Tony’s eye.

“CLINT!”

“You were supposed to kiss god dammit, you can’t even do that for yourselves!” 

iv.

“No, no, no, come on, Steve don’t do this to me, don’t you –“ 

Sirens can be heard, which means the medics are coming but they’re still too far away. Tony’s mask is off, and he’s kneeling beside Steve’s body. Steve’s not moving; his chest is still. Taking in a deep shuddering breath, Tony’s lays a hand on Steve’s chest, on top of his sternum, willing it to rise, Steve’s name repeated quietly over and over on his lips. 

And then someone’s calling Tony’s name, loud, sharp, and a hand shakes his shoulder. “Tony. Do it now. Hurry. Thirty compressions, two breaths, you know this.”

And finally, Tony snaps out of it, and he’s moving, his armour falling away to reveal his bare hands, held over each other on top of Steve’s chest, pushing down thirty times in a steady beat, praying to whoever was up there that Steve hadn’t joined them just yet. That he was still here with Tony. With all of them.

And then two breaths, Steve’s chin tilted up to open his mouth, Tony’s lips sealed around Steve’s to blow. Three times, he does the routine. There’s still nothing from Steve. 

The medics pull up then, Tony can hear the screeching tires in the background over his pounding heartbeat, going fast as if it needed to make up for how slow Steve’s was – and just as Tony’s pulls away from that last breath, Steve shudders and breathes in, chest heaving, eyes opening. 

He spots Tony. “Please tell me nobody kissed me..”

v.

Steve’s still drugged after being operated on, and Tony’s sat by his bedside. He’s gone through all the magazines the hospital had to offer, and settled for just staring at Steve’s face. Steve’s banged up pretty badly, but he’s alive is the main thing. For a moment, Tony had thought – well, it didn’t matter now. 

He feels like a bit of a creep, just staring at Steve, but there’s something reassuring in the way his chest is rising and falling, even if it’s dressed in a horrid white and blue polka-dot hospital gown. He’s stared so long, counting each rise and fall, that he doesn’t realise that Steve’s opened his eyes and is staring right back at him. When he does, he jolts back in surprise. “Steve!” 

Steve gives him a weak smile; he’s still mostly hazy. “Tony.” 

Tony doesn’t exactly know what to do. He half wants to jump on Steve and hold him, but that would probably just injure Steve more, not to mention how weird it probably was. He makes to stand up. “—I’ll go, I just wanted to make sure you—“

“No, stay. Please.” There’s that weak smile again, and it’s all he can really muster up at the moment . His hand twitches, where it’s lying beside him, as if reaching out for Tony. 

Tony sees, and hesitantly leans closer and takes it in his own hand. “I thought you were gonna—“

“I know.” Steve’s voice is quiet but he’s managed to cut Tony off twice already. “You saved me, thank you—“

And now it’s Tony’s turn to cut Steve off. “Don’t. Don’t do that, I was just doing what you would’ve done, what anyone would’ve done.”

“Still.” There’s a pause, and the corners of Steve’s lips lift a little higher. “You kissed me.” 

That gets a laugh out of Tony, and a wide smile. He feels like he hasn’t smiled in a while. “I didn’t kiss you. It’s called CPR, Steve.”

“That’s a pity, I was really hopin’—“ And to get the score back even, Tony cuts Steve off again, leaning down and pressing their lips together.


	6. Grab my hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PDA the best way they know how.

The first time Steve holds Bucky’s hand in public, Bucky ends up with a dislocated thumb.

They play a game, where they pick surprise dates to take each other on. In between all the world-saving that is, which doesn’t really give them much leisure time… but hell bent on catching up for lost time as they are, they always manage to squeeze in some alone time. This time it’s Bucky’s turn and he makes Steve take the bike to the Museum of Natural History. They park there and walk to the train station. Steve gets a confused look on his face which Bucky thinks is all kinds of adorable, (but Bucky’s slightly biased and thinks almost everything Steve does is adorable). He just knocks Steve’s elbow with his own, urging him to head into the underground.

It isn’t the first time Steve’s been on a train since reawakening in the future, (his gym had conveniently been two stops away, when he’d been living in DC). It is Bucky’s first time, though this fact doesn’t seem to mean much for the either of them as they head down.

Bucky still hasn’t told Steve where they’re going, but as they head out onto the platform awaiting the B train, Steve thinks he can guess. They face each other and Bucky flicks Steve’s fringe that’s grown out, (again), out of his eyes. Steve fixes a non-existent wrinkle in Bucky’s shirt and lets his fingers linger over a collarbone. People around them smile and avert their eyes, with some idea of who these disgustingly in love morons were, and what they did for their day job, but were respectful enough to give them their privacy.

The train arrives and a few people go for the same door as them. They wait, and Steve steps on and Bucky follows. Except with only one foot inside, the train lurches and so does Steve’s insides. In one split second, he’s reached out for Bucky and grabbed his right hand, pulled him onto the train, horror stricken. There’s snow in his eyes and his mouth is open in a silent plea. 

Grab my hand. 

It must have been a slight fault in the brakes; no one else has paid the random false start any mind, but they are looking on now, at the two men standing in the doorway. Steve’s grip on Bucky’s hand is tight; too tight and he keeps holding on even as the doors close and the train starts to actually move forward. 

“Steve.“ 

Gently, Bucky places a gloved, metal hand on top of Steve’s hand. He doesn’t pry it away, even though there’s a sharp pain in the thumb of the hand Steve has enclosed, holding too tight, not letting go. He lets Steve find reality on his own, and it comes with heavy breaths and fading panic in his eyes. A snowy ravine blurring away to make room for the concerned look on Bucky’s face. Eventually, Steve’s eyes drop to their held hands, and his grip loosens. Enough for Bucky to slip his fingers through Steve’s, and hold his hands properly. “Bucky…”

"It’s okay,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly to the side, letting his gaze stay with Steve so he knows. Everything’s okay, Bucky is right there, he’s holding him. He caught him in time. Bucky can see that Steve is struggling for words and there were still a couple of nosy onlookers keen to figure out what was going on.

So he tugs Steve to an empty two seater, away from the scrutiny and lets Steve keep holding his hand. Honestly, he gets it. This might not be what he’d planned for date day, but it wouldn’t be the first time things haven’t gone according to plan.

They stay on the train, and about half an hour into the ride, Steve’s hand slips away from Bucky’s and he leans against him, blond hair softly tickling Bucky’s neck. As discreetly as he could, Bucky pushes the joint of his thumb back into place, knowing it would just cause Steve more worry if found he’d broken Bucky’s hand in the process of trying to save him. Definitely something Bucky would mention later, though, when things weren’t so raw. 

Steve stays like that, resting against Bucky’s side for the rest of the hour trip.

When they come out into Coney Island, Bucky takes Steve’s hand and looks across at him. Steve bites his lip and smiles back and gives a gentle squeeze. So they had ghosts from the past that struck at the most unexpected of times. They had memories from the past they could revisit too, and paint them brighter than the dark corners that held the horrors and nightmares.

On the way back home, they don’t get seats and Steve has to stand and hold the giant teddy bear Bucky won in a game of darts. Bucky holds an overhead handle and keeps an arm around Steve’s waist to make sure they both don’t fall over, and they talk in whispers and quiet laughs over the fluffy head of the bear.

Steve sneaks in a kiss and says thank you just before he puts Bucky’s helmet on for him, when get back on the bike. Bucky pinches Steve’s ass and says the teddy bear needs a helmet more than he does. Steve reminds him how sexy helmet hair is and Bucky shuts up and shoves the teddybear between his chest and Steve’s back so it wouldn’t fall off.

The teddy bear gets abandoned on the couch while Steve drags Bucky by the hand to the bedroom to make up for not winning any prizes at the game stalls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://www.buckygunsout.tumblr.com)!


	7. Give me fierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Model AU

“Rogers!”

Steve startles at the sudden shout of his name and looks up from his camera he’s been fiddling with, getting the settings right for the next shoot he’s supposed to do. “Sir?” he asks, confused, when he sees that it’s the director of the shoot calling for him.

“Get your ass into gear, the shoot starts in five minutes.”

“I – I know, I’m ready to go, I’m just –”

“Ready to go? Are you kiddin’ me? Marie!” he calls over his shoulder, waving his hand at the wardrobe manager. “Get this kid into some jeans or somethin’. And burn those fuckin’ sneakers he’s wearing.”

Ten minutes later found Steve with his eyes ridiculously wide, staring at himself in a floor length mirror. His shirt had been tossed away, and he’d been shoved and squeezed into a pair of dark blue skinnies that he wasn’t sure he could walk in. He tugged at its waistband, frowning at how low it was sitting on his hips. There was no chance for pulling it up, though; the jeans were a perfect fit and clung tight to the muscle of his legs. He turned to the side, looking over his shoulder to look at his ass, not to check it out but because he was worried. He felt too damn exposed in jeans as tight as these.

“Don’t worry. Your ass looks great,” came a quiet, amused voice behind him, and Steve whipped around to see a redhead woman walking towards him. She was in jeans as scandalous as Steve’s were, though she also had a white top on, and heels, whereas Steve was barefoot and shirtless.

“What?” he said dumbly.

“Relax,” the woman assured him, catching him by the fingers to lead him onto the set. “All you have to do is stand there and look pretty. You’re already doing a great job of it.”

Natasha’s a professional. She’s been doing this for years, and this isn’t the first time some new guy has been asked to stand in for an actual model. At least this one would need minimal airbrushing. He’d probably woken up that morning ready for a GQ front cover shoot.

Half way through the shoot, after Steve’s limbs have been physically lifted and placed into position because he was too awkward to know where to put them himself, Steve works up the courage to ask the woman whose neck he’s currently breathing down, for her name.

Natasha’s smirks, and when she speaks, her lips brush against Steve’s shoulder. “Natasha.”

After the shoot, (Steve’s still in the same jeans but he has his sneakers back and has found a shirt though his cheeks seem to be permanently stained pink), he finds Natasha changing out of her heels into simple ballet flats. “So… ”

“Yeah, I’d love coffee, let’s go.”

Steve practically beams. Maybe the jeans weren’t so bad after all.


	8. Plums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince/servant AU

“Fancy seein’ you here, sire.” Bucky straightens up and leans on his rake, a shit-eating grin spread across his lips. His face is grimy, a cap pulled over his head hiding a dirty tangle of dark brown hair. He’s got a stick of wheat caught between his teeth, watching as his Prince approaches.

Steve shouldn’t be anywhere near this part of the garden, the part where the busy work happens. But Bucky’s here so of course Steve breaks the rules to see him. “Don’t act so surprised,” Steve laughs, coming right up to the other man to pull that ratty cap over his eyes, to which Bucky protests and tries to swat Steve away. The Prince is not supposed to get so close to the servants, let alone a dirty gardener like Bucky. But Steve was ignorant to any rule that kept him away from Bucky.

He steals a plum from the nearby tree, tosses it to Bucky, and plucks another for himself. He spends most evenings in some corner like this with Bucky, so it really isn’t a surprise at all that he’s here.

Bucky sinks his teeth into his plum, oblivious to the juices that start to run messily down his chin. “Big day tomorrow, huh?” He has to say it. It’s what he’s been thinking about nonstop for the past two months now. More so the past week, to the point he’s made himself feel sick with it.

Steve sighs, and suddenly doesn’t feel like eating his plum anymore, and tosses it into the bucket to join the growing pile of fruits. “Yeah….” He knew the topic would come up, of course it would, and had thought about not coming down to see Bucky for that very reason. But… he couldn’t not see Bucky, especially before tomorrow.

“Can’t believe you’re doing it,” Bucky all but spits. There’s no point hiding his feelings. It’s pretty clear what they are, and Steve’s the only one hiding from them. Bucky wipes his chin with the back of a hand and tosses away the plum seed. In two quick strides, he’s reached Steve and pressed their lips together, harsh and fierce and with every ounce of love they’ve shared between each other over the past years.

Steve pushes back. Pushes Bucky away so they both go staggering backwards. “Bucky, stop.” He frowns, and the crease between his brows appears as a break in his heart too. “I’m getting married tomorrow, I can’t.” He can’t bring himself to look at Bucky, and has to just turn around and walk away before Bucky can convince him to stay. It wouldn’t be hard. At all. 

And that’s the scariest part of all.

He can taste the sweetness of the plum that had been on Bucky’s lips, and the taste will haunt him forever, a lasting memory of the man he loved and still loves. Long after the castle’s gardener disappears without a trace, the night before the young Prince and his Princess were to wed.


	9. Your touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is a naughty naughty boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the drabble that earned this entire collection it's NSFW rating.

Bucky’s out. Gone dancing with a new girl he’s found. Steve doesn’t mind, not really. Okay, he minds, but what can he do about it? He’d vehemently said no to the idea of a double date, not at all in the mood to see his best pal be fawned over by two girls for the entire night. It’s summer and the bedroom is hot. Steve’s bed is closest to the door so it’s a fraction cooler than Bucky’s which is pressed against the back wall. The window is open, the thin curtain hanging over it fluttering a little in the warm summer breeze. Steve had wanted to wait up for Bucky, but when eleven o’ clock rolled around, he’d grown tired and just headed to bed. Once he was there, though, he couldn’t sleep.

It’s hot. Too hot. He’s shirtless and in a pair of thin cotton shorts that a thinner than they should be because he’s had them for about five years. They still fit him. He thinks about Bucky, about what he would be doing with his girl. Melinda, or something. He’d have that lopsided, charming smile he always has when he talks to girls, a sure way to get them to fall head over heels for them. It worked, by god, it worked, and it worked on Steve too. Sent his heart into a right flutter, made his chest feel tight and something warm and liquid slide down his spine. 

He’s biting his lip just thinking about it, and he lets his thoughts wander on. Bucky was wearing his one good, pale blue shirt when he left. Steve always did like it on him, went well with his dark hair and matching eyes. Sleeves rolled up, showing off strong forearms, lined with veins from hard work at the docks. Steve’s seen him when he comes home all tired and sweaty from work. In the summer, his shirt is usually off, slung over a shoulder, carrying the day’s sweat and grime on his skin. 

Without realising, Steve’s breath catches. His hand’s resting on his lower stomach, and he has no idea when he placed it there. He’s hotter than he was before, a warmth and tingly sensation settled in the pit of his stomach. He groans quietly, because he knows he’s not going to stop now. He slides his other hand up his stomach, feels the way his ribs stick out unattractively. He skims over them, doesn’t like them, fingers trailing to his chest. It’s not much better than the rest of him, concaved instead of filled out. 

Instead of focusing on himself, he focuses on Bucky, the only thing he really wants to think about. Bucky’s beautiful, in a rugged, worn, earthy way. Steve thinks he’s being a little unfair, in the way he looks at Bucky when Bucky has no idea what Steve’s really thinking. Thoughts no best friend should ever have, thoughts no decent man should ever have. Steve would go to hell. He was okay with that, he’d accepted he couldn’t stop loving his best friend a long time ago. In a sick, dirty way. 

Steve’s seen what Bucky looks like when he’s just come out of the shower, washed away the wear and tear of his hard day, and he’s loose and relaxed, smiling. Shirtless with a flimsy towel around his hips, beads of water following the path of sculpted muscle. 

Steve purses his lips to keep down a quiet moan, though no one’s around to hear. His fingers dip beneath the waistband, pauses as if he’s unsure if he should continue. He feels sick for thinking about Bucky in this way, but at the same time, he can’t help it, and he’s already starting to get hard. He slips his hand in the rest of the way, dexterous fingers wrapping around his length and that gets another groan out of him. This time he turns his head to the side, and muffles the sound into his pillow. 

He imagines what it would feel like if it was Bucky touching him. Bucky had strong hands, calloused, rough, but always warm. Always. They’d feel big on Steve’s body, small as he was. He strokes, breaths becoming shorter. His back arches a little off the mattress, and in that way, his chest looks almost flat, filled out like it should be. His hand moves faster, smooth with his own slick, and he's there, he’s already there. 

He’s jerking off to his best friend and he can’t even bring himself to care. He craves the feeling of Bucky’s skin on his own, wants to hear what he sounds like when Steve touches him, wants to drag his fingers along every inch of that body only his eyes have had the seedy pleasure of witnessing. He’s sick, he’s so sick, but god, he’s in love. 

There’re tears in his eyes when he thinks of what he can’t have, how wrong it is what he’s doing now, but he can’t stop. He goes on, Bucky’s name on his lips, a prayer, a plea, and with a last, wrecked sob, he comes, chest heaving, blood throbbing in his head and his vision blanks out for a moment. 

It returns as his breathing evens out again. His shorts are wet and ruined, and he wipes his hand on them. With a pitiful sigh, he sits himself up, knowing he’s going to have to wash up and change before Bucky gets home. He nudges open the bedroom door, to head into the bathroom directly opposite — except —- Bucky standing right there, leaning against the wall, expression unreadable.


End file.
